Don't Fear The Reaper
by irismay42
Summary: When Sam Oliver receives two vessels, he finds himself in competition with demon hunters Sam and Dean Winchester to send an escaped soul back to Hell. So that's one vessel accounted for. Who's the other one meant for? Supernatural / Reaper crossover.


**A/N: **So don't pass out - my second one shot in a week! What's going on?? Okay, SN fangirls, don't lynch me. I know Reaper is the Anti-Supernatural, but if you give it a chance you might actually get to like it... I've only ever written SN fan fic before, so forgive me if my Reaper-ese isn't quite up to par - we've only had the first half of season 1 in the UK!

**Disclaimer:** Once upon a time a little boy named Eric had a Big Idea. It's all his.  
**Spoilers: **Up to and possibly beyond the end of SN season 3 - at which point it becomes a little bit on the AU side.

**DON'T FEAR THE REAPER**

"So maybe he's on vacation."

I turned to look at Sock as if he'd grown another head. Which, knowing Sock, wasn't completely beyond the realms of possibility.

"Vacation?" I echoed, hefting a bag of compost off the palette and adding it rather half-heartedly to the lopsided stack of similar sacks creating a makeshift Leaning Tower of Pisa in the middle of Gardening. "What are you, nuts? Wait, don't answer that."

Sock looked up from the Playboy he was currently – uh – reading, reclined as he was atop the remaining stack of compost bags listing dangerously toward the palette's edge. "Yeah, vacation," he reiterated with a waggle of his eyebrows. "How else d'you think he got that tan?"

"Uh – hello? _Satan?_ He lives in _Hell_, Sock!"

"Well unless he's got a sunbed installed in the brimstone I don't see him catching many rays in the pit of the Fiery Furnace."

I sighed heavily, accepting another heavy sack from Ben.

"It's only been two weeks, man," Ben said with a shrug. "Maybe he's giving _you_ a vacation?"

"It _is_ almost your anniversary, right?" Sock chimed in. "Maybe the Horned One thought he'd cut you some slack."

"He doesn't have horns," I pointed out sullenly.

Sock frowned. "I say 'Horned?' I meant 'Horny.' Maybe he's off with some nice lady Hobgoblin on a Carnival Cruise around the Underworld."

I looked at Sock for a long moment before resuming my stacking. "Whatever," I said, huffing. "Wherever he is, at least he's leaving me the hell alone."

And for some reason that bothered me.

I mean _really_ bothered me.

Not that I wanted to be an indentured servant of Satan my whole life, but I'd finally found something I was kind of – y'know – good at.

But the closest thing I'd gotten to any kind of vessel in the last two weeks had been the keg Sock had brought to the party he'd thrown while his mom had been away in Palm Springs for the weekend.

"C'mon, Sam," Ben said, as usual trying his best to drag me out of the doldrums. "It's two weeks. I'm sure you've not been kicked off the team or anything. You're the best Reaper he's got."

"Hell, you're the _only_ Reaper he's got!" Sock snorted, the compost shifting under his weight and suddenly dumping him unceremoniously into a giant potted ficus.

I nodded. "Yeah," I agreed on a sigh. "Around these parts anyway." I shrugged uncomfortably. "And don't call me a Reaper. I'm _not_ a Reaper…"

* * *

By lunchtime my mood hadn't lightened any, despite a brief uncomfortable flirtation with Andi in the toilet seat aisle.

Shoving open the lunchroom door, I found Sock and Ben already there, both leaning forward to examine something on the table between them.

"Hey man," Sock said without turning around. "It's about time you got your reapin' ass in here. The D Man's left you a little somethin'."

Following Sock's line of sight, I had to fight grinning like a schoolgirl when my eyes lit on the ornate carved box sitting on the table between them, like something you'd find in any lunchroom in any branch of the 'Bench across the continental US.

"I told you he'd not benched you, man," Ben said, grinning for me. "Best Reaper around!"

"_Only_ Reaper around…"

"Yeah okay put a sock in it, Sock," I said, heading over to the box and gingerly lifting the heavy iron clasp. I paused, as always, no longer able to deny the little thrill of excitement that thrummed through me every time I was presented with a new vessel. And in my defense, it _had_ been two weeks since the last time.

"C'mon, man! Let's see it!" Sock urged.

Taking a breath and savoring the moment, I unfastened the clasp and carefully lifted the heavy lid of the box, which creaked in protest.

"What is that?" Ben asked curiously, peering further into the box so that I had to push his head out of the way to take a look myself.

I frowned. "It's a mirror," I said, reaching in and removing the little silver box nestled carefully on red silk. "A make-up mirror." I flipped it open, observing my own pale reflection for a second before thick fingers suddenly snatched the vessel out of my hand.

"How d'you know it's a make-up mirror?" Sock asked suspiciously, examining himself in the little circular glass as he sucked in his cheeks and did his best Blue Steel.

I shrugged. "I dunno," I stammered. "My mom has one."

"You're such a girl," Sock snickered.

"There's something else in there," Ben said suddenly, pointing a finger back into the box.

"Huh?" I followed the direction of his digit, the mirror suddenly forgotten. "How can there be something else in there? I already got the vessel. I don't get two vessels. I _never_ get two vessels. Even if there's two souls –"

"What is it?" Sock made to grab the little object shining at the bottom of the box, but I slapped his hand away none-too-gently, reaching in and closing my fingers around the gold charm as I pulled it out into the light.

A horned face stared back at me as I examined the object, a pendant of some kind strung onto a leather cord.

"It's a necklace," I pronounced eventually, twisting the thing in the sunlight streaming in through the window. "I think."

Sock blew through his teeth. "Man, that's not just a necklace," he intoned importantly, looking a first me then Ben as he drew himself up to his full, admittedly rather unimpressive height. "That's the ugliest-ass necklace I ever saw in my _life._"

Although I was no expert on jewelry, I had to agree with him. I traced a finger over the tiny golden face, the elongated nose and blank eyes that could have been open or closed depending on the angle from which you looked at the thing.

"That's a vessel?" Ben asked uncertainly. "Who d'you suppose you're gonna trap with something that –" he paused as he sought the right word.

"Hideous?" Sock supplied. "Jeez, even I wouldn't be seen dead wearing something like that."

"This from the man holding the make-up mirror?" I pointed out.

Sock glanced down at the little mirror still gripped in his hand. "When you've got a reflection this beautiful," he said, indicating himself imperiously, "you gotta take every opportunity to get an eyeful."

"I'm sure," I agreed, taking the mirror from his hand and holding it up to the necklace.

"They sure don't look like they belong together," Ben said uncertainly. "Maybe you just get double duty this week. Y'know, 'cause you didn't bag yourself a soul last week."

I grimaced at him. "Like that was my fault," I grumbled, stuffing the mirror in my jeans pocket, but continuing to examine the necklace. Sure, it was ugly as sin, but there was something kinda cool about it too.

I slumped down on the nearest uncomfortable plastic chair, still intent on the necklace, when I found myself sinking down into foam and the world in front of me began to spin sickeningly and suddenly…

…The chair I was sitting in spun to a halt in front of a gigantic, brightly lit mirror, and a towel was being wrapped a little too tightly around my neck.

I started as the reflection of the Devil appeared in the mirror at my shoulder, a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other.

"What'll it be, sir?" he asked with a huge grin that caused blinding light to bounce of his equally blinding white teeth. "Buzz cut? Mohawk? How about a Lex Luthor? I heard bald's the fashion statement of the future…"

"No!" I yelped, covering my head with my arms and springing out of the chair before the Devil could practice his shearing skills on my head. "None – none of the above," I stammered, yanking off the towel and backing up until my back hit the vanity table behind me.

The Devil grinned again, abruptly dropping the comb and scissors, which disappeared in mid-air before they had the chance to hit the floor.

"Sammy, Sammy," he enthused. "I believe you got the little present I sent you?"

My hand went instinctively to the mirror in my pocket while my fingers tightened on the necklace. "Yeah, what's up with that?" I asked, frowning. "Two?"

The Devil's grin slipped into an enigmatic little smile. Seriously, the Mona Lisa had nothing on this guy. "You're looking for her," he said, pointing into the big mirror behind me, which suddenly reflected an Amazonian-looking woman with bright orange hair piled atop her head like the proverbial beehive. She was busy chopping at an elderly lady's blue rinse, the scissors inadvertently nicking the old woman's ear.

The hairdresser smiled apologetically. "Oh, sorry about that, hon," she simpered, before wiping at the blood welling on the old lady's ear with one long, perfectly-manicured finger. She sighed contentedly as she inserted the blood-covered digit languidly into her mouth.

"Ew!" I shuddered as the image dissipated and all I could see reflected there was myself and the Devil at my shoulder.

"That's only the least of what she did," the Devil said, raising an eyebrow. "When she performed a skin peel, she _really_ performed a skin peel!"

"You're kidding, right?" I burst out. "I gotta capture Beryl the Beautician?"

"Angelique Argento, actually," the Devil corrected me. "Or the 'Demon Beautician of Beverley Hills' as she was more affectionately known. Left a string of corpses right across California in the eighties."

"Okay," I nodded thoughtfully, suddenly holding the necklace out in front of my "employer." "And this? Who's this for? I gotta get two this week? 'Cause it's not my fault you didn't bring me a vessel last week."

The Devil gazed at the odd-looking charm for a second, the enigmatic smile still hovering over his lips. "No, it's not your fault, Sam," he said, nodding slightly. "Not your fault at all."

I blinked. "So who's it for?" I asked again. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

The Devil just looked at me. "I haven't decided yet," he said, becoming more annoyingly cryptic by the second. "But when I make up my mind you'll be the first to know."

* * *

"That's all he said?" Ben asked for the twentieth time, leaning forward between the Prius' front seats eagerly.

"Yeah, that's all he said," I repeated, turning to glance sideways at Sock, who was busy devouring the biggest chili cheese dog I'd ever seen in my life. "You're sure Angelique Argento used to own this place?" I motioned out the window to the derelict storefront across the street, the glass boarded up and the door covered with a sheet of corrugated metal. The whole block seemed to have been abandoned sometime in the eighties, the four story building above the former beauty salon completely windowless, every pane of glass having been smashed during the intervening decades, leaving the building with the appearance of a blank-eyed corpse.

"That's what Josie said," Sock replied around a mouthful of hotdog.

I shuddered, gaze still lingering on the derelict building. "I'm amazed you can even get Josie to talk to you, much less get information for you."

Sock grinned big, remnants of hotdog stuck between his teeth in an oh-so-attractive manner. "Once you've been Socked there's no going back my friend."

I wrinkled my nose at him. "Like typhoid," I commented, "or cholera."

I suddenly straightened as a flash of bright orange caught my eye on the sidewalk in front of the abandoned storefront. "She's here," I said, groping for the door handle while my fingers tightened around the mirror in my pocket. "Look!"

Sock and Ben followed the direction of my crazily-pointing finger as I jumped out of the car.

"That is one fine looking woman!" Sock pronounced, eyes riveted to the statuesque beautician currently peeling the metal away from the door of her former boutique.

"She looks like my Uncle Ernesto," Ben commented, following us out of the car as we crept toward the storefront.

I heard Ben grunt behind me, and turning, I noted that Sock had stopped so suddenly in the middle of the road that Ben had run right into him.

"What's wrong?" I hissed mid-stride, twisting back to see what had Sock so transfixed.

"Now _that_ is a thing of beauty," he breathed, his lustful gaze raking over a clunky jet black classic car parked slightly askew across the street.

"It's a _car_, Sock," I ground out impatiently. "And in case you've forgotten – escaped homicidal soul on the loose here!"

"That's not just any car," Sock breathed. "That's a '67 Chevy Impala. My God, she's beautiful! Couldn't you just wax that paintjob until you could see your face in it? Wouldn't you just love to run your fingers over the chrome…?"

"Sock –"

He took a step toward the object of his dubious automotive desire, apparently mesmerized, Ben grabbing at his arm just as a loud bang sounded from inside the store and a bullet whizzed past my ear.

Simultaneously ducking and spinning back toward the storefront, I heard an irritated voice bellow from inside, "God_damn_it, Sam!" and I started at the sound of my own name. "Gimme the goddamn thing!"

"Like you could o' hit her!" Another voice complained. "She's too damn fast!"

Sock and Ben were staring at me open-mouthed from their position prostrated on the asphalt.

"M-Maybe we should wait outside –" Ben stammered, and a few months ago I might have agreed with him.

But right now?

No friggin' way.

I had a mission to complete and no trigger-happy freaks with guns were going to stop me.

"Stay out here if you want to," I said, in my head my voice sounding like John Wayne, while in reality it probably sounded more like Pee-wee Herman. "I'm going in!"

"Wait! Sam!"

Sock's plea fell on deaf ears as I shoved my way into the storefront, distant flashlights playing in the back room beyond an open doorway on the other side of the salon.

The floor was littered with discarded hair pins and rollers, several washbasins hanging half off the moldy walls which sported enough broken mirrors to make for a millennia of bad luck.

"Sammy!" I heard the voice yell, following the direction of the flashlight into the open space beyond the small salon.

A rickety staircase led upwards to my right, upturned furniture and packing cases strewn across the bare concrete floor between me and another doorway opposite.

A flash of orange caught me unawares inches from my face and I felt myself shoved backwards as another loud bang cracked across the room and a flash of light momentarily blinded me.

"Hey! Stop! Miss! Please?" I heard Sock's staccato voice behind me, followed by a grunt and a thud as my friend was impolitely knocked to the floor.

"Dammit!"

I got to my feet only to find the muzzle of an antique-looking six-shooter aimed right between my eyes.

"Wait! Dean – civilians!"

The gun was suddenly shoved out of my face, further cursing issuing from someone maybe a couple of feet in front of me.

I blinked as the room was suddenly flooded with illumination, glancing behind me to where Ben stood, his finger flicking at a light switch on the wall. "That better?" he asked, grinning sheepishly.

"Why didn't you think of that, college boy?" the man in front of me hissed, glancing over his shoulder.

I blinked again, for a second unable to take my eyes off the ridiculously long-barreled revolver still hovering inches from my face, weird symbols cut into the barrel and the grip. Summoning my courage, I finally looked up at the guy holding weapon, half expecting to come face to face with Sly Stallone or Bruce Willis.

What I actually found myself looking at was a catalog model.

He was taller than I was, spiky brown hair cut military short, slim build belying a muscular frame, ripped jeans, biker boots and a navy blue jacket finishing off the ensemble as he glared at me with intense green eyes.

He was the sort of guy, I mused, that if you were out on a date and he was sitting at the next table to you, your date would spend the whole evening paying a hell of a lot more attention to him than she did to you. And you'd still wind up paying the check.

Not that that had ever happened to me before.

"You coulda turned the lights on too, Dean," the guy behind him said.

If the first guy looked like a catalog model, the second guy looked like a freakishly tall Ken doll. I mean, seriously, Catalog Model was tall, but Ken Doll was freakin' _huge_. He had a thick mop of unruly dark brown hair and was dressed in a god-awful cream colored jacket and jeans that were equally as ripped as the first guy's. Although the brown hoodie he wore under the jacket was pretty loose-fitting, from the size of him I was _damn_ sure I didn't want to get into a fight in a dark alley with him because I had no doubt he would probably be able to crush me with one hand tied behind his back.

"What are you doin' here?" Catalog Model demanded, getting right up in my face, although thankfully not waving the old gun at me anymore.

I stood my ground, pulling myself up to my full height which, admittedly, was a few inches shorter than him and about a mile shorter than the guy behind him. "What are _you_ doing here?" I demanded in return, although my voice wavered a little bit more than Catalog Model's had.

"Hey, I'm asking the questions here," he snarled.

"Dean," Ken Doll breathed. "He's a civilian –"

"He's a civilian who just got in the way of our baggin' Ms. Friggin' Sweeney Todd over there!"

"Dean."

"Sam?"

"Who – who are you guys?" I interjected, dragging their attention back to me. "And why were you after Angelique?"

Catalog Model – Dean – squinted at me. "You're on first name terms with that demonic Bitch Queen of Bitchville?" he demanded.

I frowned right back at him. "What? No," I said. "I just – I just had an – an appointment with her."

"Cut and blow dry?" Dean sneered, finally stowing the antique revolver back inside his jacket. "Or was it a pedicure?"

"Hey man, watch who you're talkin' to." Sock was suddenly at my shoulder, noticeably staying solidly behind me, but there nonetheless.

"Who _are_ we talking to?" Ken Doll – I figured maybe he was called Sam too – asked almost politely.

"I was – I was sent here to – to send her – Angelique – back to Hell," I stammered, pretty sure these guys would off me just because they thought I was a total nutjob.

Dean tilted his head slightly. "Send her back to Hell?" he echoed. "You?"

"That's right," Sock put in, daring to take a step forward but still making sure he kept me between him and the two gun-toting newcomers. "My man Sam's a Reaper, dude. Satan's right hand man –"

Sock never even got to finish the sentence, the weird-looking six-shooter and a far more modern-looking semi-automatic suddenly thrust right in my face.

"Hey! Whoa!" I raised my hands in surrender.

"You work for who?" the other Sam demanded over his raised handgun.

"Uh –" I began.

"It's not his fault," Ben chirped up. "His mom and dad sold his soul to the Devil and now he has to work as a Reaper, catching escaped souls and sending them back to Hell."

I didn't dare turn and look at Ben, but the two guys in front of me seemed to be seriously considering what he'd just said.

"Your parents sold your soul to the Devil?" Sam asked.

I tried to laugh but it came out as a gurgle. "What? Oh don't listen to him he's –"

"Your – your mom didn't end up – on – on the ceiling or anything?"

"Sam?"

"What?" myself and the other Sam both barked out simultaneously.

I laughed nervously. "Sam Oliver," I introduced myself awkwardly.

"Satan's bitch," Sock added helpfully.

"And no," I added with a frown. "My mom never ended up on a ceiling as far as I'm aware."

Sam and Dean exchanged a look that could have been relief but could equally have been something else entirely.

"You send escaped souls back to Hell?" Dean shifted uncomfortably, the old gun still pointed at my forehead.

"Uh. Yeah," I confirmed, not entirely sure why these guys weren't laughing their heads off at my ridiculous story.

Dean lifted his chin slightly. "You're just here for Angelique?"

I frowned a little at him. "Well, yeah," I said, shrugging.

Uncocking the old revolver, he lowered it slowly before stowing it again in his jacket. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sammy," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the giant, who grimaced.

"Sam," he corrected.

"Sock," Sock chimed in. "My entourage, Ben."

"Your what?" Ben asked.

"Hey, we got two Sams!" Sock replied, ignoring Ben's completely. He nodded at Giant Sam. "You'll have to be Sam Number One and he can be Sam Number Two." Sock sniggered, before adding, "Dude, you're number two," at the exact same time as Dean said precisely the same thing. The two of them eyed each other suspiciously, and I was uncomfortably reminded of that scene in _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_ when Future Bill and Ted ran into Present Bill and Ted.

"So why are you guys here?" I asked to break the stalemate. "What's your interest?"

Dean and Other Sam shrugged. "Same as you."

"You're Reapers?" Ben asked, awestruck.

An ironic smiled tugged at the corner of Dean's lips. "Not exactly," he said. "But it looks like we might be on the same side."

"Dean, they said they work for the Devil," Sam reminded him. "How can we be on the same side?"

Dean seemed to consider that for a second before shrugging. "Hey, they want to put this bitch in the ground, _we_ want to put this bitch in the ground. Far as I see it, that puts us on the same side."

Sam looked at me appraisingly. "Maybe," he said reluctantly. "For now."

"Except now we don't know where the hell she's gone," Dean added.

"She ran off down the street somewhere," Ben informed us. "There's another empty building at the end of the block…"

"Well why didn't you say so?" Dean demanded, shoving past me and heading for the exit.

"Hey, wait!" I spun on my heel, grabbing his arm. "She's _my_ soul! You guys should – should wait here."

Dean looked at me over the old gun that had once again appeared from inside his coat. "We look like the 'stay here and mind the children' kinda guys, Sammy?" he asked, grinning.

"It's _Sam_," I muttered, relinquishing my grip on his arm and settling for following him back out onto the street, his behemoth brother close behind me.

"What are you going to do when you find her?" Sock asked suddenly, the five of us snaking down the street, hugging the wall of the derelict building as we tried to stick to the shadows.

Dean glanced back at him, waving the gun in his direction. "Waste her," he said, as if that was the most obvious answer in the world.

"You can't _kill_ her," I told him knowledgeably. "Not with _bullets_ –"

"We can with these bullets," Sam said, his cheeks dimpling incongruously as he flashed me a broad smile. "Demon-killing bullets from a demon-killing gun."

"She's not a demon," I argued. "She's an escaped soul."

Dean shrugged. "Potato, potahto," he said, ducking into the darkened opening of the next building over.

We followed in a long straggly crocodile, finding ourselves in a wide open space lit by moonlight streaming in through naked rafters above our heads. The roof appeared to have crumbled years ago, broken tile littering the ground we walked on, windows boarded up in the same hasty fashion as the boutique we'd just left behind.

Dean and Sam produced flashlights from their seemingly bottomless pockets, playing the beams around the crumbling building. There was no sign of Angelique.

"Okay, maybe she didn't come in here after all," Ben mumbled apologetically from behind us, just as a loud crash and a string of curses off to our left alerted us to something a little bigger than rats lurking in the darkness.

"Sam, this way!" Dean yelled, and even though I was pretty sure he wasn't talking to me, I chased after him as he took off into the shadows, his brother's feet pounding on the concrete behind me as I caught a glimpse of orange in the beam of Dean's flashlight.

"Dean!" Sam yelled behind me, just as his a gunshot rang out up ahead.

"Goddammit!"

"Dean!"

It was at this point something heavy slammed into my shoulder, and before I knew what was happening I was flat on my back, looking up at an inky black sky as I tried to remember which way was up.

"Come and get me, hunter!" a nominally female voice hissed behind me. "Maybe you'll make it over here before I rip out baby brother's throat!"

I twisted into a sitting position, a discarded flashlight catching the amber-haired hairdresser in its bright white beam.

She was backing away from us, her arm held fast around Giant Sam's neck, a wicked-looking knife held at his throat.

"You hurt him and I swear to God it'll be the last thing you ever do, lady!" Dean growled, stepping slowly toward her, gun raised to shoulder height.

She cackled nonchalantly, pulling Sam backwards with her, his hands raised submissively as he communicated silently with his brother. Dean nodded minutely at him, and I had absolutely no idea what the hell the two of them were planning.

"I've heard that before," Angelique purred. "The last hunter who told me that ended up with his skin upholstering my car seats."

"Ew, gross," I heard Sock murmur in the distance, and, startled, Angelique pivoted suddenly in the direction of his voice, Sam's elbow making firm and sickening contact with her stomach at the exact moment she found herself slightly off balance.

"Now, Dean!" Sam yelled, managing to shove the knife away from his throat and throw himself into a tuck and roll, Angelique realizing her mistake too late as Dean brought the ancient gun up toward her.

He must have pulled back on the trigger at the same instant that I brought out the tiny make-up mirror, the bullet whizzing through the air just as the demonic beautician's body began to crackle and fizz, lighting up bright orange as the bullet pierced her forehead, before dissipating into vapor and whooshing toward me, the mirror trembling in my hand with the force of the displaced soul slamming into the glass.

Next thing I knew I was lying flat on my back again, the mirror still clutched firmly in my hand, but my fist now closed around it, breathing hard and staring up into the blackness as two faces came into my line of vision.

"Dude, what the hell did you just do?" Dean asked, offering me his hand as he gazed down at me in surprise.

I took the outstretched limb gratefully, allowing the guy to pull me – _help_ pull me – to my feet. I wobbled a little, the mirror still crackling and sparking in my hand, and he put a steadying arm around my shoulder. "Vessel," I said a little breathlessly, raising the mirror in one shaking hand. "Use them to transport escaped souls back to Hell."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Damn," he said. "And I thought a demon-killing Colt was cool." He stowed the weapon back inside his coat, as his brother patted me gently on the back.

"Nice going, man," he said. "Most civilians would be Jell-O by now."

I glanced over at Sock and Ben, who were cowering under a skeletal staircase, faces whiter than a nun's wimple on wash day.

"I told you," I said. "I'm not a civilian."

"Yeah yeah," Dean nodded. "Reaper. Right. Well I've seen prettier Reapers, but for right now we'll give you the benefit of the doubt, kid," he said. "And I think we owe you guys a beer."

I followed the two hunters back out into the street, Sock and Ben shadowing me so close they were almost in my underwear.

"You know a good place around here?" Dean asked, striding across the street toward the big black Chevy Sock had been drooling over earlier.

"Tell me that's your car!" Suddenly Sock was in front of me, practically pawing at the guy's jacket.

Dean took a step back from him warily, producing the key from his seemingly inexhaustible supply of pockets. "Yeah. You like?"

Sock's face lit up like the 4th of July. "Yeah, I know a great place," he said, clapping Dean on the shoulder a little overly-familiarly. "I could show you the way if you'd like –"

"That's okay, Sock, they can just follow us –" I began.

"I'm riding with _them_, Sammy," Sock ground out determinedly, flashing me a look that would melt steel before turning his big goofy grin back on Dean. "Right?"

* * *

I can honestly say I'd never seen an expression like the one plastered across Sock's face in anything other than a cheap porn movie.

"Nice ride, huh?" I asked him, locking up the Prius as he poured himself out of the Impala and we headed toward the entrance to the bar.

"Dude," he murmured, almost insensible with delight. "I swear that was the best five minutes of my whole life. The earth moved, man."

Dean grinned at him over the roof of the car. "You can have two beers," he told him. "I'm buyin'."

We threaded our way through our usual haunt, the two brothers seeming way too big to be there, several of the girls lining the bar turning their heads to follow them as they walked past.

"Pretty boys," I mumbled, noting Andi sitting at the corner table, waiting for Josie to return with much-needed alcohol.

"You know them?" she asked casually, faking disinterest.

"No," I said. "Yes. Sorta. Bumped into each other. Similar line of work."

"They work at a home improvement store?"

I frowned. "Not exactly."

Josie, loaded up with a pitcher of tequila and several glasses, almost slammed right into Dean as she turned away from the bar, looking up at him with a scowl that rapidly turned into an intrigued squint. She took a step back, looking him over for a second, before asking a little uncertainly, "I know you?"

Dean returned her appraising gaze thoughtfully. "Depends," he replied. "Ever been to Seattle?"

She grinned slyly at him. "Maybe in a past life, sugar."

Dean grinned at her. "I dunno, I never forget a pretty face."

Josie shrugged. "Me either," she said, continuing to eye Dean as she squeezed past him. "And they sure make 'em pretty wherever you're from…"

"Uh, when you're done flirting with the handsome strangers –" Andi chimed in, motioning to the pitcher in Josie's hand. "Thirsty here!"

I slumped down on the table next to the one where Andi was sitting, and she frowned at me. "I forget to shower this morning or something?"

I smiled apologetically. "Business to discuss," I replied with a coyly enigmatic smile, as Sock and Ben took up seats either side of me and Giant Sam pulled up a chair opposite.

"Nice place you got here," he commented with a grin. "Kinda homey."

"Man, you should stick around for the karaoke later," Sock put in. "It's _wild_, dude!"

"Sammy don't do karaoke," Dean approached with a tray of beers which he practically threw onto the table in front of us. "I hear that Gloria Gaynor song one more time I might have to kill him myself."

Sam grimaced defensively. "One time, Dean!" he protested. "One time!"

Dean slumped in the chair next to him, sparing another sidelong glance in Josie's direction. "Nice view," he commented, his attention returning to our table as his brother elbowed him in the ribs.

"Listen, we just wanna thank you guys for your help," Sam said, raising one of the beers in our direction.

"Yeah, you did pretty good out there for amateurs," Dean agreed with a smirk.

I rolled my eyes. "Hey, I've been doing this for a year, man!" I insisted. "How long have _you_ been doing it?"

Dean exchanged an odd look with his brother before smiling placidly at me. "A little longer than that," he said.

"Wait," Sam said suddenly, straightening in his seat. "You've been collecting escaped souls for a year?" he echoed suddenly.

I nodded. "Yeah, just about…"

Sam looked over at Dean knowingly. "Since Wyoming," he said.

Dean blinked at him. "No way."

"Gotta be, Dean!" Sam insisted, turning back to me. "Your – uh – boss ever tell you how the souls you're chasing got out of Hell in the first place?"

I shrugged, trying to think whether that little snippet of information had ever come up whilst I was still trying to get my head around my parents having sold my soul to Satan. "Not that I know of," I replied eventually. "He just said they escaped."

Sam nodded. "It was a Devil's Gate," he explained. "In Wyoming. A demon called – called Azazel –" he shifted uncomfortably. "He was trying to amass a demon army to invade the earth." His eyes slid to his beer and he took a sip, not making eye contact with any of us.

"What happened?" Ben asked.

"A lot got out," Dean replied. "Couple hundred at least. We've been hunting them down ever since. Looks like you've been doing the same."

I smiled weakly. "Always happy to help save the world," I told him. "Still doesn't help me figure out who else I'm supposed to be sending back to Hell." I slipped the necklace out of my pocket and dangled it thoughtfully in front of me. "Don't know who the hell this belongs to."

Both brothers' eyes widened considerably, Sam's chair scraping back as his fingers flew instinctively to the handgun stashed in his jacket pocket.

Dean put a hand on his arm, stilling his movement.

"Dean –"

"Where'd you get that?" Dean asked, voice icily calm as he eyed the necklace hanging from my fingers.

I froze slightly under his intense scrutiny. "This?" I said. "It's a vessel. Like the mirror. I'm supposed to use it to send an escaped soul back to Hell."

Sam suddenly grabbed hold of Dean's arm, yanking him to his feet. "Dean, we're leaving," he said authoritatively. _"Now!"_

Dean scowled up at him. "Not without my necklace," he ground out.

Wait. What did he just say? "_Your_ necklace?" I echoed for clarification.

Dean held out his hand. "Give it."

"Dean, he's a _Reaper_!" Sam growled at him. "Let's _go_!"

"Not without my necklace, Sam!" he repeated.

"Dammit." Sam gripped his brother's shoulders and tried to spin him toward the exit.

"Quit it, Gigantor!" Dean hissed, trying to struggle out of his brother's grip, just as Sam suddenly grabbed him and jerked him close.

"You wanna go back?" he hissed, face right up close to Dean's. "Huh? Dean? You wanna go back? He can _send_ you _back_, Dean! He's a Reaper, goddamnit!"

I glanced behind me, relieved to see Andi and Josie weren't at their table, apparently having decided to visit the ladies' room together, as girls did. "Keep it down, guys," I said, nonetheless.

"Yeah, you wanna advertize Satan's minion drinks here?" Sock added, grinning as if everything was a joke to him. Which it generally was.

"Look, we have to go," Sam said. "Thanks for your help and everything but –"

"I want my necklace," Dean stood his ground, still holding his hand out to me.

I glanced down at the ugly charm threaded between my fingers. _You wanna go back?_ "It's you," I said slowly, comprehension finally dawning as my eyes locked with Dean's. "_You're_ the escaped soul I'm supposed to be sending back to Hell with this thing."

Sock turned surprised eyes from me to Dean and back again. "C'mon, Sam," he said. "Why the hell would he be hunting escaped souls if he was an escaped soul himself…?"

All eyes turned back to Dean, who shifted awkwardly.

"Well?" I asked.

Sam pushed his brother behind him slightly, hands held out in a gesture of surrender. "Look, it's not what you think," he began, desperation sliding into his hazel eyes. "He did it for me."

"Did what for you?" I asked, twisting the necklace between my fingers so it glinted in the muted light. "Committed mass murder? He a serial killer or something?"

"No," Sam protested, his voice softer, subdued. Resigned. "I died," he said simply. "And he sold his soul to save me."

I wasn't entirely sure how to respond to that. "You – you _died_…?"

"It was all part of some evil demonic plan for world domination," Sam added. "Azazel, the demon who planned the Hell Break? I was – I was supposed to lead his demon army." His eyes slid down to the floor.

"Sam –" his brother began.

"But I died instead," Sam continued regardless, finally returning my gaze, strength of purpose returning to his stance. "And Dean saved me. But – but – a couple of months ago…" he trailed off again, shaking his head.

"I went to Hell," Dean finished for him, straightening. "My bill came due and the Hellhounds came for my sorry ass. End of story. Well so I thought. Until I got out –"

"You escaped from _Hell_?" Ben's mouth had been hanging open throughout the brothers' narration, eyes huge with wonder.

Dean grinned lopsidedly. "Michael Scofield's got nothin' on me," he beamed. "Wasn't so hard," he added. "And besides, I figured my dad managed to do it, so why couldn't I?"

"Your – your _dad_…?"

Dean shrugged. "Long story. Involved a semi and another deal with a demon," he said. "But here I am. Back in the land of the living. And the only thing I didn't bring back from Hell with me was that necklace, apparently."

I turned the necklace over, considering. If it was a vessel, then…

"If I give you this, you'll be returned to Hell," I told him. "It's a vessel. It's what I'm supposed to use to send escaped souls back there. If I don't – if I don't send you back then – then I don't know what'll happen to me instead."

That was true. I'd never refused to send a soul back to Hell before. They'd all belonged down there. Until now.

"Please," Sam stepped in front of his brother again. "Dean doesn't deserve to be in Hell. He saved my life. He's saved _hundreds_ of lives. Just – just let us go. Tell your boss you never saw us. Tell him you couldn't find us. Hell, tell him anything, just – just – please. Please. I can't – I can't go through losing him again."

Dean looked at him for a second, the muscles along his jaw tightening. He looked back at me, almost submissively. "Hey man, you do what you gotta do," he said. "Better me than you." He held out his hand for the necklace again, and Sam blanched.

"No, Dean, wait. No, you can't –"

I shook my head slightly, taking a step backwards. "I can't let you…" I began.

"Not your fault, man," Dean said stoically. "You had no choice in this. Doomed since you were a baby, right?" He shot an impenetrable glance in his brother's direction. "Never your fault," he repeated, continuing to maintain eye contact with Sam. Finally, he turned back in my direction. "C'mon, dude. It's my necklace. I knew I left it somewhere. Motel maybe. Bar. Back seat of the Impala. Didn't figure I left it behind in Hell." He laughed hollowly, still holding out his hand toward me. "C'mon Sam Number Two. You need to do your job now."

I continued to hold on to the necklace, Sock and Ben slowly rising to their feet beside me.

"Sam, you can't –" Ben began.

"Sam, maybe you shouldn't –" Sock trailed off.

"Here."

I really didn't have a choice.

I handed Dean the necklace, and he smiled at me as his fingers closed around the ugly gold charm.

Briefly I closed my eyes, waiting for the inevitable lightshow and the confused questions from a bar full of my friends.

But nothing happened.

No blinding light, no fireworks. Nothing.

Dean took the necklace and slipped it over his head, sighing as he felt the weight of it against his chest. "I missed this old thing," he murmured as his brother, tears in his eyes, tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder.

"Dean. Don't go –"

"I don't think he's going anywhere," I muttered, frowning heavily. The brothers shot twin looks of puzzlement in my direction and I shrugged uncertainly. "Usually as soon as the vessel gets anywhere near the soul, it's zapped right in there and they're on their way to the DMV."

Dean screwed up his face in confusion. "The DMV…?"

Sock shook his head. "Better not to ask, man," he said.

Sam glanced from his brother to me. "I don't understand," he said, brows drawn together somewhere between anguish and relief. "What are you saying? Dean's not going back to Hell?"

I shook my head. "I don't know, man," I replied honestly. "This has never happened to me before."

"He says that to all the chicks," Sock interjected with a lecherous grin, but the relief was evident in his voice.

"Then we can go?" Sam's voice trembled a little, as if he thought it was all too good to be true and any minute now the Hellhounds would be coming for his brother a second time.

"I – I guess," was the best I could manage, glancing behind me, almost expecting the Devil to appear at any moment. But he didn't. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

A watery laugh escaped Sam's lips, and he drew the cuff of his sleeve across his face.

Dean cupped the back of his brother's neck for a second, squeezing slightly. "Dude, you're such a girl sometimes," he muttered, before slugging him in the shoulder good naturedly. "C'mon, Sammy, let's blow this gin joint before someone Down There changes their mind."

Sam nodded readily. "Yeah. I think that might be a good idea." He looked over at me, nodding slightly. "Thanks, Sam," he said. "Or – y'know - whoever."

I nodded back. "All in a day's work," I told him lightly.

"How about one last ride in that Impala?" Sock put in suddenly. "For old times' sake?"

Dean laughed dryly. "Maybe next time, man. I think we'd better go before Sammy has an emo-induced coronary."

* * *

"Don't you love a happy ending, Sammy?"

I looked up into the grimy men's room mirror, cold water dripping from my clammy face as the Devil's reflection gazed over my shoulder intently.

"It wasn't my fault," I began to protest, panic prickling at my insides. "When he touched the vessel nothing happened! It didn't –"

"It's okay, Sam," the Devil intoned, patting me reassuringly on the shoulder. "That wasn't a vessel." He straightened his tie casually as his gazed at his own reflection.

I screwed my face up in confusion, turning to look at him uncertainly. "Huh?"

"Dean Winchester might talk a good game," the Devil continued, "but even he couldn't have escaped Hell without a little help, tenacious as he is."

"Help?" I echoed. "Who helped him?"

The Devil grinned slyly at me. "Now that would be telling," he said, winking playfully at me. "Don't want you thinking I've gone soft in my old age."

My eyes widened in shock. _"You?"_ I burst out. "_You_ let him go? Why? Why would you do that?"

The Devil's features hardened instantly. "Azazel and his little demon uprising, planning and plotting for _years_ behind my back!" he spat. "Piss poor upstarts planning a demon invasion of this world – _my_ world – without _my_ say so? Without so much as a by your leave? You think I'm going to stand for that, Samuel? Dissention in the ranks?"

I shook my head emphatically. "No, sir. No way," I said.

"Damn skippy," the Devil agreed. "That little Hell Break? All that sniveling little snot Azazel's idea. 'Let's break all my followers out of Hell without even asking the jailor,' he says. No 'Please, Boss, me and my friends want to wreak demonic havoc upon the earth. Can we go? Can we, can we?' I wasn't too pleased, Sam, believe you me. Wouldn't have minded if he'd just _asked_ first. But no, had to start the demon revolution without okaying it with me first, didn't he? I don't tolerate that kind of disrespect, Sam. Got my hands on Dean Winchester's contract myself when my representative managed to haggle him down to next to nothing in return. Knew he'd be the one that could finally get that little piss ant out of my hair for good. But I knew he couldn't do it without that brother of his. That was more of a risk. Letting him have him back. He's got something of a dark destiny, that boy. But I figured, with Azazel gone, what the hell, huh?" He grinned broadly. "Pardon the pun."

"So you broke Dean out of Hell?"

"Maybe I did," the Devil replied. "I work in mysterious ways, Sam."

"And his necklace?"

"Left it behind when he took off. He was in something of a hurry, you see. I just wanted to return it to him is all."

"But why?" I asked. "Why have him and his brother free to send all of those demons back to Hell…"

"Where they belong?" the Devil finished for me. "Is that so different from the job I have you doing Sam?"

I nodded slowly, comprehension dawning. "You want them all back in Hell where they're –"

"Controllable," the Devil agreed. "Yes. If anyone's going to lay this world to waste then it'll be _me_," he added. "Not some little asswipe with delusions of grandeur. And right now," he sighed contentedly, "I like this world the way it is. It's so much more fun with there's free will involved. Just ask the Big Guy upstairs! Bowing and scraping's only amusing for so long, Sam."

"So you're letting Dean go? Releasing him from his contract?" I asked hopefully.

"Don't get any ideas, Sam," the Devil squinted at me. "No one's ever really _free_ of me. Be well for you to remember that."

I swallowed. "But for now…?"

"For now, Dean Winchester is far more useful to me rounding up those rebellious snot-nosed pipsqueaks who took it upon themselves to follow Azazel instead of _me_," the Devil continued. "When they're all back Hellside –" he winked at me, and I shuddered from head to toe. "– I may find another use for Dean Winchester and his brother." He laughed heartily, teeth glinting in his overly-tanned face. "Maybe someday. Maybe soon."

and for the first time in a year I realized there were people in this world who had gotten an even crappier deal than I had.

No way I'd want to be Dean or Sam Winchester right now. No way in Hell…

* * *

So was that so painful? Give Reaper a chance! And don't throw rotten tomatoes at me!


End file.
